They are sorry, they bring up umbrellas
from the beach below. They are paid
for this, the boys with their deep tans
who are beautiful but feel nothing
of what is felt by some for them.
Some days it rains and the beach
is left pocked and cold.
The umbrellas are left inside.
Maybe everything here is temporary.
The couple, when the sun is out,
carry their own umbrellas
down to a few feet from the water line.
They talk and like everyone
have their own language-the color
of their suits,
the quantity of food they bring,
the amount of chilled chablis.
Each day, on its own, is quiet with little
detail bothering anyone. The man speaks well
with the boys, and the woman
is clever and alive with her eyes and mouth.
Sometimes the couple talk quietly together
for hours, abstractedly. They look out beyond
the line of water that dissolves at sunset,
the sun a plug that frees the water-
the water and configurations of fish
fill the sky. It is covered in discussion
as the couple walks under the kelp constellations
of evenings by the sea and continue
their amused talk, some little salt on their tongues,
the sea giving, the sea taking back,
again and again and finally,
long after the couple fall asleep
to the predictable rhythm of the tides,
the sea withdraws and the dawn sky clears.
The boys who bring up the umbrellas are sorry
because everything is temporary: the sun,
the weather, the bathers, the season, and,
although they don’t know it yet and may never,
the two who walk into the water, hand in hand.
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